


A Wolf and His Boy

by ALoza



Series: Prey [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Kinda Fluffy, M/M, Stripper Stiles, kinda smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALoza/pseuds/ALoza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles likes stripping. He's good at it. He doesn't get distracted by customers. Work is work. Until a mysterious alpha comes into the club, Stiles had everything under control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wolf and His Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is dancing to "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" by Emily Browning.

Stiles likes stripping. He’s good at it. On most nights, he’s the highest earner, which is quite the ego booster for someone who used to be categorized as “goofy” and “gangly” in high school. But on stage, with the pulsing music and the hot lights, the way he twists and rolls his body, the way he spins on the pole, the way he curves his back, the coy smile that plays on his lips, it really gets the patrons roaring. And Stiles loves the attention, loves the way men of all ages clamor for more, panting like a pack of wolves, which is fitting since he works at one of the only strip clubs catered for supernatural beings. Werewolves, vampires, all kinds of seemingly otherworldly ghouls gather here daily.

Tonight, the music makes Stiles’ blood boil, his heart racing like a train engine, and his skin burning. The slinky, small voice coming through the speakers whispers, making goosebumps rise over his arms; his fingers grip the pole and spins once, winking at the crowd; with the bright stage lights, he can only make out a few silhouettes, which is fine since he tends to have a small case of stage fright his first dance of the night.

Slowly, his clothes begin coming off; first the loose fitting tank top with the words “I Love Dick” on it, next his painfully short, skin-tight black shorts, which he momentarily struggles to get over his clunky combat boots. 

He does some tricks, being mindful to save all his best for his very last dance of the night. He grinds on the pole, pressing his forehead against it before throwing his head back. He hears grunts and cat calls from the audience and he grins. 

The DJ promotes Stiles, telling clamoring customers where they can get a dance with him. Stiles collects his clothes and pulls them on messily, walking through the crowd, men handing him money, slipping it into the waistband of his short.

Stiles always smiles and says thank you, making sure to always touch them in some way, running his fingers through their hair, or letting their hands travel down the curve of his back. It’s just a taste, a sneak peek of what’s to come if they pay for a private dance. 

Stiles adjusts his outfit in the back room, tightening up his guy-liner, which the werewolves go wild for, and adding a bit more glitter to his chest. He’s slightly sticky, so he runs a baby wipe under his arms and another blotting at his flushed cheeks. Stiles just turned nineteen, but his boyish face makes him look sixteen, which gives his customers a sense of danger, like they’re doing something wrong by touching him, which makes everything oh so right. 

Stiles breathes in through his nose and out his mouth. Again, Stiles likes stripping. He loves pleasing people, he loves getting a rise out of a man. But it becomes jarring. This was just supposed to be a temporary thing, a quick way to make good money, but somehow, it’s become the center of his life. He lives alone, no roommates, no boyfriend, just him. There’s no one to keep him anchored to reality, no one to touch him, really touch him, when he closes his bedroom door. 

“You might want to get back out there, they’re getting a little restless,” Lydia says, taking the seat next to him. With supernatural beings, gender doesn’t matter. It’s all about sex appeal. 

She blots her face and reapplies her lipstick, fire engine red. Her eyelashes go on for days as she runs the mascara wand over them. 

“I just need a break,” Stiles says, rolling his shoulders.

“You looked great up there,” she says, not looking at him, but herself. She smiles at her reflections, pouting her lips. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Did you see the alpha in the back watching you?” she asks, raising an eyebrow and grinning. 

“Which one?” Stiles jokes. “There’s always an alpha looking at me.”

She rolls her eyes. “He was sitting in the back, complete babe.”

Stiles shrugs. “Nope. I came straight here.”

“Well you better get your ass back out there before Jackson tries to steal the show.”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah. Because what a werewolf or vampire really wants is someone with a dominant personality.”

They laugh, because that’s exactly what they don’t want. It’s all about appearing weak and submissive when it comes to werewolves and vampires. It’s about letting your customer believe they have the power, for thirty minutes at least. 

Stiles sighs, “Alright. See you later. I’m gonna go make my rounds.”

“Ta-ta,” she winks.

It’s packed tonight, and there’s a severe division between groups. Stiles prefers working with the werewolves. They’re rough, but not as emotionally and mentally exhausting as the vampires. He had to receive special training to not succumb to their compulsion before he was even allowed to work, but even still, it doesn’t stop them from trying. 

Stiles isn’t a prostitute. He’s had offers, many offers, but he doesn’t want to be known for that. He’s come close, when the money was just right and the man was nearly perfect, but he said no, that he had a boyfriend. 

A vampire reaches over to him, fingers closing around his wrist. 

Stiles stops and rests his free hand on his hip. 

“Why don’t you have a seat?” he asks, his eyes glowing. 

“It’ll cost you,” Stiles smiles, leaning in, just so the vampire can smell him, see the vein in his throat. He licks his lips. 

The vampire grins, his cool glaze lingering on Stiles’ thin boyish hips. He touches his waist, and Stiles tries not to flinch from how cold he is.

“Money isn’t a problem,” he says. 

Stiles smiles and leads the vampire to a private booth, letting him hold his waist, pressing himself to his back. 

The timer starts - Jesus, he paid for an hour with him. 

The vampire sits down and raises an eyebrow, running his tongue over his exposed fangs. Stiles feels his heart catch and he straddles him, grinding against his lap. He presses their chests together and the vampire hisses, licking his throat.

“You ever been bitten?” he asks, massaging Stiles’ lower back.

“Not my scene,” Stiles says, rolling his hips and the vampire moans with ecstasy. “Why don’t you tell me you name, cowboy?” 

“Rick,” he whispers, his breath catching, a small choked sound and Stiles nibbles on his ear. 

Stiles laughs, rubbing hard against the vampire’s stiff erection. “Cowboy Rick with the big dick?”

Rick leans forward, pressing his lips against Stiles’ ear, “It gets bigger.”

The hour goes on like this, voices so heavy with arousal that it drives Stiles insane. He feels Rick tremble under him with each hip rotation. Rick keeps asking Stiles to go home with him, to see exactly what he can do with his equipment. But Stiles just laughs, not cruelly, but bashful, and says that his boyfriend wouldn’t take to kindly to it. 

When the hour is done, Rick clings to Stiles, “I want you.”

Stiles kisses his cheek, “Maybe next time.”

It’s getting close to midnight, and Stiles still has two hours left in his shift and he’s already made three hundred dollars. 

“Stiles,” Lydia says, jumping off a werewolf’s lap. 

Stiles raises his eyebrows.

She presses close to him, knowing that it’ll drive the customers mad. The werewolves have a certain kink of watching two submissive’s interacting sexually with each other. Lydia loops her arm around his waist and whispers, “That alpha, the one I was telling you about, he’s still watching you; he’s been staring at your booth for an hour.” He can hear the smile in her voice.

Stiles leans in close, “Which one?”

“Tall, dark, and smoldering in the back,” she says.

Stiles cranes his neck and searches; he sees a silhouette amidst the shadows. 

“Should I go up to him?” Stiles asks nervously.

“I’ll castrate you if you don’t,” Lydia smiles, kissing his cheek, before returning to her customer.

Anticipation floods his body and he bites his bottom lip, his eyes flickering ahead. Walking towards the alpha, Stiles knows he can smell how nervous he is. So he plays it up, twirling his fingers through the loose fabric of his tank top. 

“Want a dance?” Stiles ask, voice barely more than whisper over the music, but he knows that the alpha can hear him. The man cocks his head towards him, still mostly hidden behind the poorly lit overhead lights. 

He grunts and Stiles reaches for his hand. He’s burning hot, but Stiles likes it. 

He leads them back into a private room, eyes looking ahead, savoring the anticipation of looking at him. The skin on his hands is rough and slightly calloused, and Stiles is already tingling thinking about those hands touching him, loosening the buttons of his skimpy shorts. 

He opens the door, and the alpha shuts it behind them.

Stiles opens his mouth to negotiate prices but stops.

The man is tall, and there aren’t enough words to describe how beautiful he is. His eyes have stopped glowing, revealing a cool hazel shade, a color that makes Stiles’ blood crawl sluggishly through his veins. His jaw is squared and strong and slightly stubbled, which Stiles thinks is extremely sexy.

Even through his leather jacket, Stiles knows there is a wonderland of muscles just waiting to be touched, to be kissed and sucked. A lump forms in his throat and his mouth waters.

“How do we do this?” the alpha asks, his eyes slowly, very slowly, traveling down the length of Stiles’ body. Stiles can’t help but blush seeing the utter desire building beneath the man’s jeans. Oh Jesus. It takes every fiber in his body to keep from reaching for it. 

“Um, you can take a-a seat or you can,” Stiles swallows, “stand...or however. Wh-whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

The alpha raises a brow and sits, spreading his legs wide and cocking his head. He peels his jacket away, and Jesus fuck, the black shirt he’s wearing is so tight that he’s practically bursting through it.

“Well?” he asks.

Stiles nods, heart beating in his throat, and throws his shirt aside but keeps on his shorts. He climbs onto him, hands gripping his shoulders as his tighten around his waist. Stiles winces.

Stiles starts rolling his stomach and hips and the alpha’s eyes zero in on his thin, lithe body. He growls softly, a throaty sound that Stiles relishes in. 

“So,” Stiles pants, “what your name, big guy?”

The alpha sucks in his scent, pressing his face against his throat. 

“Derek,” he says, dragging his lips over the supple flesh.

Stiles gasps. 

“Derek Hale,” he breathes into the skin. 

Stiles shakes his head, trying to force the cotton haze from his mind. 

“So, Mr. Hale, how can I serve you?” Stiles asks, extending his neck. 

Derek grows hard beneath him, rock hard, at the sight of Stiles’ exposed throat. His fingers dig into his hips and grinds there cock together, breathing haggardly, tired, like he’s breathing through fire. 

“I had a few things in mind,” he says, voice heavy, letting go of Stiles’ waist and grabbing his face. He kisses him, just once, but once is enough to send every nerve ending into a fiery frenzy. Derek’s tongue runs along Stiles’ lower lip, begging for entrance.

“I don’t kiss,” Stiles tries, but his voice falls flat.

Derek smirks and kisses him again, Stiles’ thoughts going fuzzy from the heat.

“You don’t kiss?” he asks. 

Stiles tries to say no, but is too intoxicated by this man, this werewolf, this alpha, this Derek. 

“Please,” Stiles begs, melting into him, fingers running through his hair, lips crashing together, hips grinding. He clings desperately close him, wants to taste every inch of his skin-

“Stop,” Stiles says, panting. Derek stops, begrudgingly. “I don’t even know you.”

Derek raises a brow, and Stiles’ stomach erupts with butterflies. Derek takes a breath and looks away. Everything about him, his face, his face, his scent, makes him feel dizzy. 

“I’ve been watching you for a while now,” Derek confesses, and Stiles’ heart catches. “On stage, and off.”

Stiles can’t help but think that he’s crazy, and that it only takes a single bite to the jugular to end his life. He curses at himself, because he should be taking the wolfsbane supplements to keep the werewolves from biting him, but he’s too trusting, and he enjoys dancing on the edge of danger. 

“Don’t be scared,” Derek tries to reassure him. “It isn’t like that.”

“What is it like?” Stiles asks, staring at Derek’s chest; he presses his fingers into the muscles, feeling his heart keep time with his pulse. 

“I can’t...” Derek starts, hissing with pleasure. Stiles absently rolls his hips, because he should be working, he doesn’t usually have complete conversations with his customers. 

“Sorry,” Stiles blurts, keeping arching his back, but Derek holds him in place.

Stiles’ scent is clean and unmarked, virginal. His mouth waters, itching to taste the droplet of sweat tearing down the side of his throat. He can almost see the rush of blood beneath the thin, pale skin. 

“From the moment I walked into this club, you had an effect of me, a pull,” Derek says, his voice gruff. “I watched you dancing, watched the crowd call your name, and felt my stomach turn. I didn’t even know you and I felt like you belonged to me.” His fingers trace circles on Stiles’ sides, making him shudder with delight.

“Bit early for a proposal, isn’t it? You’re not even ten minutes into your dance,” Stiles jokes, because it’s the only thing he can do to keep from screaming. 

Derek growls, bouncing Stiles on his lap forcing him to cry out. The sound is electrifying, but Derek restrains himself from doing it again.

“Just a joke, big guy,” Stiles whispers, his voice wrecked.

“What are you?” Derek begs, squeezing Stiles’ hips so tightly he can already see the bruises forming. Stiles gasps, moaning into Derek’s shoulder, fingers digging into his muscles. 

“My-my,” Stiles starts, “my name is Stiles, and I’m a dancer.”

Derek closes his eyes and listens, catching every beat of Stiles’ fervent heart. “You’re not afraid of me.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, not afraid.”

“Why not?” Derek asks, cupping Stiles’ chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. 

Very seriously, Stiles says, “Who could be afraid of such beautiful eyes?”

He kisses him, lips dragging languid and rousing. Stiles explores Derek’s mouth, his tongue licking and tasting every bit of him.

Stiles can’t explain it either, can’t explain the connection forming between them. It’s strong and powerful, filling him with every breath. Oxygen suddenly becomes unnecessary and all he needs is this man, this werewolf, to survive. 

Derek stops them, teasing his lips over Stiles’, laughing when he protests, eyes still closed and concentrated, like kissing him is the most important thing. 

“Come with me,” Derek says.

“I’m trying,” Stiles says, grinding against Derek’s lap. 

Derek chuckles, whispering into Stiles ear, “Not yet.”

Stiles whines. 

Suddenly Derek has him on his feet, leading him out of the private booth, and into the club. He’s hit by a cold blast from the air conditioning vent and he shivers. He sees Lydia grinning at them, licking her perfectly pouty red lips, blowing him a kiss. 

“Friend of yours?” Derek asks.

“Best,” Stiles says. “Wait. Wait.”

Derek turns around, slightly annoyed. God damn he’s beautiful when he’s agitated. 

“What?” he growls.

“I haven’t finished my shift yet,” Stiles says. “I can’t go.”

Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles’ heart races. 

“How long?” 

“Until two,” Stiles frowns, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him. 

Derek pinches the top of his nose, closing his eyes. “And there’s no way someone can cover your shift?”

“It doesn’t work like that, big guy,” Stiles says, yelping when a hang claps on his ass.

Derek, overcome by his wolf, snaps, grasping the other werewolf’s wrist so tightly he can feel the bone nearly break. 

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Him,” he snarls, his lip twitching, eyes red and glowing. 

For someone reason, even like this, partially shifted, Stiles isn’t scared. He’s exhilarated. He’s usually repulsed by possessive personalities, but with him, with Derek, it’s completely right.  
 Stiles clasps Derek’s wrist and smiles, pressing a kiss to the other werewolf’s head. 

“Sorry about him, he can be a bit territorial,” he says with a wink. He turns around, “Come on.”

Derek snarls, again, before following almost obediently. 

“I thought you had to work?” Derek asks.

“Fuck work,” Stiles says, pushing open the club door, breathing in the fresh air, feeling the mist cover him like a blanket. “Jesus, it’s cold.”

Derek happily and automatically relinquishes his jacket, placing it gingerly over Stiles’ smooth shoulders. Stiles smiles at him, big brown doe eyes reflecting the starlight, or maybe it’s the neon light from the club’s sign. Either way, Derek’s breath catches and he looks away.

“Where did you want to go?” Derek asks, forcing strength back into his voice. Something about this boy, this human, makes him feel so weak and vulnerable. 

“Anywhere and everywhere,” Stiles says, running a hand through his hair, glitter sparkling as it falls from his head to his cheeks. 

There’s a sharp pain in his chest and he tries not to wince. He remembers what his mother told him before she died, about finding your mate. It’s tumultuous and terrifying, and god forbid if they’re human, because you’ll have to battle your wolf to stay in control. You’ll feel completely exposed and you’ll do anything for them, die for them, risk everything just to be with them. It’s dizzying and wonderful and insane. 

Derek pulls Stiles into his arms and kisses him, holding him up by hooking his hands under his knees, wrapping his legs around waist to keep him secure. Stiles smiles when their lips meet, and Derek knows he can kiss this mouth forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this wasn't what you were expecting.


End file.
